


Triquetra

by HarmonyLover



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Declarations Of Love, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Fix-It, Multi, Other tags to be added, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmonyLover/pseuds/HarmonyLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing holding Sherlock together was the need to make John happy, even if that happiness had nothing to do with him. Oh, John was ecstatic that Sherlock was back – in fact, she’d never seen him so cheerful and content, once he got over his anger at the detective’s deception – but his priority was her, and them, and it was eating Sherlock alive in a silent, bone-deep way that Mary wasn’t sure she could watch any longer. It was heartbreaking, and there was no need for it to be so. Not if she could bring them both around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nagaem_C](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/gifts), [WickedForGood13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedForGood13/gifts), [hitlikehammers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/gifts), [Solea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solea/gifts), [mmolloy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmolloy/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> **Author’s Note:** There are some complicated notes that go with this story, most particularly with the title, which I have put at the bottom. As always, my deepest thanks to WickedForGood13 and Nagaem_C, who both encouraged this little project with much enthusiasm and discerning reading. The other dedications attached to this story are to all of the authors who inspired me with their lovely writing about Sherlock/John/Mary polyamory.

Mary stood on the pavement in front of 221B, contemplating the conversation she was about to have and the small hints that had brought her to Sherlock’s door. She had been thinking for several weeks, ever since Sherlock had made his dramatic reappearance at her truncated engagement dinner, and her thinking had become even more serious once she had sussed out how terrified Sherlock truly was about her and John’s upcoming wedding.

She had started paying closer attention to the things Sherlock did and didn’t say, and it had become clear to her that Sherlock was very deeply in love with her fiancé, even if said fiancé was too oblivious to see it. The only thing holding Sherlock together was the need to make John happy, even if that happiness had nothing to do with him. Oh, John was ecstatic that Sherlock was back – in fact, she’d never seen him so cheerful and content, once he got over his anger at the detective’s deception – but his priority was her, and them, and it was eating Sherlock alive in a silent, bone-deep way that Mary wasn’t sure she could watch any longer. It was heartbreaking, and there was no need for it to be so. Not if she could bring them both around.

She took a deep breath and knocked at the door of 221B, summoning up a friendly smile as Mrs. Hudson answered the door. She loved Sherlock’s landlady, but at the moment she was too worried and nervous to find a completely sincere smile.

“Oh, hello dear,” Mrs. Hudson said as she opened the door. “Were you looking for John? He’s not here as far as I know.”

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson. No, actually, I was looking for Sherlock,” Mary answered. “Is he in?”

“I think so, dear; I haven’t heard him rush out anywhere, and he was playing the violin until about half an hour ago. Go right on up,” Mrs. Hudson answered cheerfully.

“Thank you,” Mary said. She went up the stairs purposefully, not hurried and not slowly, for she was sure Sherlock was listening and would deduce that she had come deliberately.

“Hello, Mary,” Sherlock said calmly as she walked into the flat. He was standing at the window, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, wearing his crimson dressing gown over his Oxford shirt and suit pants. His tone wasn’t cold, exactly, just contemplative, as if he had been in the middle of several trains of thought – and of course, he probably had been, Mary reminded herself.

“Sherlock,” she said warmly, and the smile that broke over her face this time was genuine. She really was attached to this odd, brilliant man – for as short a time as she had known him, he had become tremendously important to her.

Sherlock turned from staring out the window to look at her, and he gave a thoughtful frown as his eyes scanned her. “You came to see me today because John took a weekend shift at the surgery and you knew I would be here. You went to look at cakes this morning, which you told John you were going to do, and then caught a cab to come to Baker Street. You didn’t want us to be interrupted, and you knew that John would be busy with patients after lunch.”

“Right as always,” Mary said, her tone both sheepish and admiring, for it was impossible not to be awed by Sherlock’s intellect. “I came here for two things, actually, and I need your help with both of them, Sherlock.”

“Not always,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, but he gestured toward the two chairs in front of the fireplace, and they moved over, Mary settling herself in John’s chair while Sherlock sat in his accustomed leather chair. Mary saw the flash of pain in his face as they sat, before he could hide it, seeing her where John usually sat. It only strengthened her resolve.

God, people could be ridiculous. And these two men, these two impossible idiots with whom she had bound up her life, were quite possibly the most ridiculous pair she had ever seen.

She leaned over, propping her elbows on her knees, and reached for one of Sherlock’s hands, clasping it between her own. He stilled in surprise, but let her, waiting to hear what she would say before he reacted. They had achieved their own level of trust since they met, and while Mary was not foolish enough to believe that Sherlock trusted her entirely, not quite yet, she knew that he trusted her because John did. For now, that would have to be enough, and she could only hope that this conversation didn’t shatter it.

“First, we need to talk about the fact that you’re in love with John,” she said, and she felt Sherlock’s hand jump in her grasp. She wrapped both her own hands around his fine-boned, slender digits in reassurance.

“Mary . . .” Sherlock began tentatively, and she looked up.

“Don’t deny it, Sherlock,” she said, gently but firmly. She hoped that her face conveyed the same reassurance that her hands had.  “Please don’t. Don’t dishonor your beautiful heart or my intelligence by denying it.”

Sherlock stood up in one smooth swirl of limbs, muscle, and dressing gown, pulling his hand free as he did so. Almost before Mary could blink, he was back at the window as he had been when she entered, facing away from her, voice carefully neutral.

“It’s not relevant,” he said evenly, though she could hear the fine thread of a tremor in the words. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Not relevant?” Mary exclaimed, standing in her turn. “Sherlock, of course it matters.”

“No, in the grand scheme of things it _really_ doesn’t,” Sherlock said, and there was just a hint of the old arrogance and superiority there,  the “Let me tell you exactly why you’re wrong” tone  that Sherlock was so famous for, but there was also self-deprecation, and exhaustion, and resigned acceptance.

It made Mary want to weep.

“John is alive, and happy, and he has found a woman who is, astonishingly, everything he needs,” Sherlock continued, flashing Mary one of his rare real smiles, even though it was shot through with sorrow. “That is all that really matters, all that is really of any importance. And perhaps . . . it is better.”

Mary stepped up to him, up to where his face was so guardedly turned away from her, and he continued to stare out the window as she stared at him, willing him to give her some answers. “Better? Better than what? Sherlock, you can’t possibly think he is better off without you.”

“Isn’t he?” Sherlock returned. “I hurt him, Mary. I . . . miscalculated, badly, and hurt him more than I ever would have wished to, and he would not have survived that if not for you. So yes, better all around, don’t you think?”

He turned and made to move past her, but Mary blocked him deliberately. She was going to get him to understand what she wanted, and even more importantly, to see that he was so very wrong about John, but she wasn’t getting anywhere with gentleness.

Time for some tough love, then.

“Sherlock, why did you jump off that roof?” she asked bluntly.

Sherlock took a tiny, involuntary step backward, and his eyes widened in confusion. “I told you why.”

“You told us the obvious why – that Moriarty and his network needed to be finished, and believe me I am grateful that you took that task upon yourself,” Mary replied. “No one else could have done what you did. But you didn’t tell us the true reason why, Sherlock. There had to be other ways to stop Moriarty than faking your own death. If it had just been a question of you versus him, I can’t imagine you wouldn’t have found some other way to best him and deal with his associates. So what was he holding over you? He had to have something; he even shot himself before you jumped, and you jumped anyway. What leverage did he have?”

Sherlock was still staring at her, wrong-footed and speechless at the way she’d turned the conversation, and Mary pressed her advantage while she had it. “The way I see it, the only thing he could have held over you that would have mattered that much was John’s life. You jumped, you faked your death, you went on a two-year solo mission that almost got you killed countless times, because it meant that John would live. Moriarty had set it up, somehow, so that John was still under threat even after Moriarty was dead.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, so quietly that Mary wouldn’t have heard it if she hadn’t seen his lips move. His eyes were stricken, although Mary didn’t know if it was from the memory of that day or from her rapid uncovering of his secret.

Sherlock cleared his throat and moved again, and this time Mary let him, watching him walk over to the mantel and fiddle restlessly with the skull. “There were snipers, Mary. Not just on John, but on Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade as well. I would not let harm come to them, either – but just the threat on John would have been enough.” His voice had dropped back down to a whisper by the end, and he ran a hand through his hair, once again keeping his face averted.

“And you don’t think it would mean something to John, to know that?” Mary said incredulously. “Sherlock, you saved his life! You put yourself through two years of hell for _him_! You don’t think he would want to know? At the very least it would explain to him why you didn’t tell him.”

“I do not need his _gratitude_ ,” Sherlock spat, finally turning around and looking at her, and Mary recognized this expression from John’s stories, the icy eyes, the hard tone that shredded people’s minds and hearts to ribbons. She had not seen it directed at herself before, but she recognized it, and it was lucky for her that she was not someone who was easily cowed. “I did it because I love him, because I can no longer conceive of a world where he does not exist, but I will not have him tied to me out of _obligation_ or _pity_. I will not allow those things to be part of our friendship, Mary. I could not bear it. I saved him because there was nothing I wanted more than for him to live and be happy. I could not assume I would live, and even had I known I would make it this far, I would never want him in my life out of some misguided sense of _duty_. I have his friendship and his forgiveness, and it is enough.”

“It is not enough,” Mary contradicted sharply. “Not for him or for you. He is already tied to you, Sherlock – _was_ already tied to you, before you jumped, and not out of obligation or pity or any of those absurd things, but tied to you through love. I know you didn’t see him while you were gone, and I did, but Sherlock, can you really believe that he would have been so angry with you when you came back if he had not loved you so much? He was a _shell_ when I met him, living less than half a life, because the man who was his entire world was dead, and John had never so much as _tried_ to say how he felt, hadn’t even realized it until just before the end – what he thought was the end,” Mary amended. Her breathing was rapid and her chest tight, and the need to shake the man in front of her was almost stronger than she could stand.

“John isn’t – he didn’t –” Sherlock fumbled, unable to articulate what he wanted to say through the flood of new information. He was looking at Mary as if he’d never seen her before, and maybe he hadn’t, though Mary was willing to bet that what she had just said was reframing every image of John he had ever captured in his formidable mind.

“Not gay; yes, I know,” Mary said, permitting herself an impish smile. “Are you?”

Some of the tension left Sherlock’s shoulders and posture as he looked at her expression. “Not strictly speaking, no,” he murmured. “I don’t find most terms surrounding sexuality terribly helpful. Pansexual or demisexual, maybe. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.”

“But you love John,” Mary said, taking a step toward him.

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, and the exhaustion was back, permeating every line of his frame. Mary ached to see it; she wanted so badly to make it go away, but she wasn’t the one who could. Not the primary one, anyway. She could only get all of them on the right path.

“And you want him.” Another step.

Sherlock’s hands curled helplessly into fists. “Yes. What are you saying, Mary?”

She took the third step, so that she was close enough to rest her hands on Sherlock’s forearms. “I’m saying that I don’t think it has to be either/or, Sherlock. I’m saying that I’m tired of seeing my fiancé and his best friend be utterly miserable because they are without each other, when they’ve been longing for each other since the day they met. I’m saying that my heart hurts because I love John, and I care about you so very much, you utter madman, and I think there’s a way to heal all of these hurts and empty places between all of us. As long as we’re all willing to do this, I think we can make it work.”

Sherlock was looking at her with something akin to open wonder in his eyes. It was difficult to impress Sherlock Holmes, and it made Mary warm in every way imaginable to know that she had done so.

“You . . . are a marvel, Mary Morstan,” Sherlock said softly.

She smiled fondly at him, her customary sauciness slipping back into her tone. “Why do you suppose John loves me? I put very little stock in rules and conventions, Sherlock, much like someone else I know.”

“You don’t have to do this, Mary,” Sherlock reminded her quietly. “I would not trade my happiness for your pain, any more than I would John’s. You make him happy, and he makes you happy, and I can be content with that. What you are proposing is . . . unconventional, and you might find it hurts you more than you think it will.”

“I know that I don’t have to,” Mary answered him, squeezing his wrist lightly. “I _want_ to. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, Sherlock, watching you and John, listening to my own heart, and I’m not proposing this idly. We are the two halves of John’s heart, and I would not ask him to live another half-life. I want more than anything for him to be whole.”

Sherlock shook his head slightly. “Even if you are right about . . . how John feels, I can’t imagine he will agree.”

“I am, and he does, and he will,” Mary said with a grin, back on sure footing. “You leave that to me.”

Sherlock assessed her again, his eyes filled this time with the vulnerable warmth Mary had seen in him from that very first evening, the tentative reaching out of a heart that was accustomed to far too much hurt. She could see him choosing his words very carefully when he spoke again.

“And you . . . tolerate me . . . enough to do this? To offer this?”

And if Mary thought her heart had hurt before, just hearing that question from Sherlock’s lips made it break a little more.

“Were you not listening earlier?” she chided him softly, sliding her hands up so they rested just inside his shoulders, over his collarbone on both sides. “I do much more than tolerate you, Sherlock. I’m very fond of you. I would never want anything to happen to you, not just because it would destroy John, but because it would hurt me as well. You are so much more than the face you show to the world, and I find I’m beginning to care very much for the man underneath.”

Sherlock went completely motionless then, and Mary could see him struggling to process what she’d said, struggling to wrap his mind around the idea that she could care for him on his own merits, and not just as John’s best friend.

“It doesn’t have to be everything all at once, you know,” she reminded him, giving him another smile. “We can see where it goes, where the boundaries are, physical and otherwise. The only thing I need to know is, do you care for me enough, in some way, to try and do this?” she asked, reaching up and brushing a fond hand over his cheek.

Sherlock was back to studying her now, that bright, intense gaze taking in as much as it could, stripping her bare, and _oh_ , it was intoxicating. No wonder John couldn’t get enough of this man.

Sherlock caught her hand in his, where it rested on his shoulder, and let his eyes slide closed. “Yes.” Just a breath, barely there. “Yes.”

“Good then,” Mary said, leaning in to brush her lips over his knuckles. His eyes opened in surprise, but she had already stepped back, simply letting the little gesture stand as its own sign of afffection.

“That brings us to the second thing,” she continued, and now her hands came up to wring themselves together. “It’s not nearly so pleasant, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock’s eyes had become analytical again, but just a hint of a sly smile hovered at the corner of his mouth. “Are you finally going to tell me what you’ve been lying about?”

“I – yes,” Mary stammered, surprised. “How much do you know?”

“Not much. I wasn’t trying. Luckily for you, I knew that you weren’t lying about anything to do with John,” Sherlock said gravely, and the look in his eyes was enough to make Mary shiver. He would have had no compunction about destroying her if he had caught any hint that she wasn’t sincere in everything she felt and did for John. He had done much worse in the two years he had been away, she knew – and for just a moment, every ruthless minute of those two years showed in his eyes.

“Whatever you were lying about, I put it aside because John trusted you, and because I could see that you loved him,” Sherlock went on, a trifle more kindly. “But something’s changed. Why do you need me?”

Mary took a deep breath before pulling a chain out from under her blouse, fingering the thumb drive that dangled at the end of it. “Someone is after me. Or rather, they’re after the person I used to be.”

Sherlock gestured back toward the chairs, everything in his posture reverting to the alert detective, intent on a case. “Tell me everything.”

* * *

 

 Sherlock watched her for a long minute when she finished, two hours and several cups of tea later. His fingers were steepled at his lips – had been for ages, Mary realized – and his expression was a curious mix of intrigued, sympathetic, and angry.

“You have to tell him,” Sherlock said flatly, the first words he’d spoken in well over half an hour. It was a statement, not a question, and Mary flinched.

“I know,” she said softly. “I should have told him before now, but I thought - I thought we’d have time, and then suddenly Magnussen was breathing down my neck, and I didn’t know what to do.”

The anger won out in Sherlock’s face, and Mary gripped the edge of her seat, knowing whatever came next was going to be hurtful.

“And how exactly would telling John _after_ your wedding make anything better?” Sherlock said harshly, unfolding his long frame from the chair so that he could pace through his agitation. “‘Oh, by the way, darling, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before we got married, but I used to be a CIA assassin and then a freelancer. I’ve given that up now, though, found a false identity and everything, no need to worry.’”

Mary felt a flush of anger and shame suffuse her cheeks, and she spoke before her brain could catch up with her mouth. “I hardly think _you’re_ one to talk about withholding information from John,” she snapped.

Sherlock stopped, fury in every line of his body, and when he turned to face her, the look in his eyes could have cut glass. “No, I’m not, but I did it to save his _life_ , Mary. I was willing to lose him and I knew I might. Are you prepared to face that possibility? I will not let anyone harm you; I will find a way to deal with this, but I will not be a party to violating John’s trust yet again. You have to tell him and let him decide what that means for the two of you. Nothing else happens until he makes that decision.”

“Yes, of course,” Mary agreed falteringly. She understood Sherlock’s logic, and really, it was the advice she would have given anyone else. She was used to keeping secrets, but there were limits. She could not spend her whole life with John and not have him know what she had been before she had become Mary Morstan. Had she not been so afraid of losing John, how he would react to one more of his loved ones having potentially deadly secrets, she would have told him long ago. She had suspected that coming to Sherlock for help would result in exactly this ultimatum. If she did not tell John, Sherlock would, and it would break John’s faith in her irrevocably.

Of course, the secrets she had to tell might do that anyway. Sherlock was right; no matter how much she loved John and wished to be his wife, she had to accept that John might not want to continue their relationship, once he knew what she had been. That had to be his choice. Perhaps she had, subconsciously, come to Sherlock not only because she wanted things to work between the three of them, and because she needed his help with Magnussen, but also because she needed his external force to make her face her own fear, to help her do the right thing.

As Mary thought, she registered Sherlock talking quietly to himself, thinking aloud and trying to assimilate all of the information she had told him. The meaning of what he was saying slowly filtered back into her brain, as her mind came back to the living room of 221B.

“. . . It doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t make sense, why would Magnussen want you?” Sherlock questioned, back to pacing in front of the fireplace. “You have a particular skill set, but why would it matter if you were ex-CIA? If he wanted to use your skills he would keep your secret, although it’s possible he could try to blackmail you into doing his bidding. The only thing accomplished by exposing you is potentially ruining your relationship with John; you have no relationship to anyone important on this side of the ocean . . . _oh._ ”

If Mary had thought Sherlock was angry before, it was nothing to the look on his face now; he looked absolutely feral as he whirled around and gripped her wrist. She shrank back, actively willing her body not to resist; starting a physical fight would only confirm her guilt in his eyes, whatever he thought she was guilty of. Trying to fight him wouldn’t have done any good, anyway; the Sherlock who was holding onto her tightly enough to bruise and potentially with enough leverage to break her wrist was absolutely terrifying in his ferocity.

“Are you working for Magnussen?” he demanded, his face inches from hers. “Is that what this was, Mary? Is that what our little conversation before was all about?”

“No, Sherlock, what are you talking about?” Mary exclaimed. “Why on earth would I be working for Magnussen, when he’s the one blackmailing me?”

“Oh, I think it’s fairly simple,” Sherlock snarled. “Magnussen believes in pressure points. You on your own are not that valuable, but he knows that you are engaged to John, he has to. Maybe that’s what the bonfire was about when I first came back; he was warning both of us. You want the information he has on you to go away, so he offers you a trade. Take your story to Sherlock Holmes, your fiancé’s best friend. Gain his sympathy, get him to help you, befriend him, offer him everything he ever wanted emotionally. Find out everything you can about his habits, his family, what his weaknesses are. You give Magnussen as much information as possible on me, and he leaves you and John alone for the rest of your lives. He can then come after me whenever and however he pleases. If you don’t do what he wants, he’s already made it perfectly clear he can kill your fiancé whenever he likes and expose you to the world as a former killer. Your pressure points are your former life and John; mine is John and Magnussen knows that, so he uses John against both of us to get to me. I am out of the way eventually, if not immediately, and you get your perfect little life with John.”

It made a frightening amount of sense, and there was no way to prove to Sherlock that he was wrong. Mary looked him straight in the eyes.

“Sherlock, I am not working for Charles Magnussen. I swear it,” she said steadily. “I have nothing to give you but my word, but it is the truth. I came to you because I have no idea how to find my way out of this, but I would never, _never_ work for that reprehensible man. Even I have some sense of morality. In fact, in my other life I would have gladly accepted the contract that would have rid the world of him. People like Magnussen need to be put down; that’s why there are people like me – like I used to be.”

She reached down with her free hand, since Sherlock still hadn’t let go of her, and clasped the thumb drive that was still around her neck, pulling its chain up and over her head. She held it up, still looking at Sherlock unflinchingly.

“Take it,” she said. “My whole other life is on here. Who I was, how I came to be CIA, every job. You can read it if you like, keep it for insurance, destroy it if you are willing to be that forgiving. I don’t know if Magnussen has an exact copy, or if he only has some of it, but he has enough. I have no idea how he got it. As far as I know, no one else has that information, and I am willing to trust you with it.”

Sherlock reached out and curled his fingers around the drive, letting her wrist go at the same time. He looked at the drive in his palm and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“A. G. R. A.?” he questioned.

“My initials,” Mary filled in quietly.

Sherlock studied her for several seconds and then, to her utter and complete surprise, he leaned down and gently kissed her forehead. Mary inhaled shakily; the absolution in that brief press of lips left her light-headed.

“I am sorry,” he murmured. “I had to be sure.”

Mary shook her head. “You can’t be sure,” she said helplessly. “I have no proof.”

“Your body language is proof enough; guilty people do not display the same reactions,” Sherlock said with certainty. “You have tremendous control over your physical tells, Mary, but even you are not infallible.”

“Thank you, I think,” Mary said with a wry smile. Her face became serious again as she looked up at Sherlock. “Surely it can’t have escaped you that Magnussen can achieve the same ends even without my cooperation,” she pointed out. “He had to know I would go to you with the skip code; he _was_ warning us both. He has the information about my former life, and the means to get to John, who is my other pressure point. John is your pressure point. Therefore, by controlling me he controls John, and by controlling John he controls you. The result is the same.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “The thought had occurred. What I don’t understand is _why_ ; why would Magnussen want me? I cannot give him anything he doesn’t have already.”

“What will you do?” Mary questioned. Now that the decision was made, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. She was still terrified of telling John, but simply knowing that she must made it easier. Leaving the matter of Magnussen in Sherlock’s hands was tremendously reassuring.

“I cannot approach Magnussen the way I would a normal case,” Sherlock answered, his fingers steepled again as he considered. “He is far too powerful, and he does not live in the shadows in the same way Moriarty did. We don’t want him to use his leverage, so we must find a way to go after him that _keeps_ him from using it. I may have to bring in Mycroft, Mary. Much as I hate to ask him for anything, he does have his uses, and in this case he may be our only recourse.”

“Do what you have to, Sherlock,” Mary said resignedly, standing up and pulling her coat on. “I trust your brother’s discretion almost as much as I trust yours; for all I know, he may already know who I was before.”

“It’s possible,” Sherlock acknowledged. “I will talk to him.”

“Thank you,” Mary said, and before Sherlock could object, she folded him into a hug. “Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for caring.”

She felt Sherlock nod against her hair. “Tell John, Mary. He is the wisest and best man I have ever known; he will understand.”

“I hope you’re right,” she whispered, and giving him another squeeze and a quick smile, she made her way out of the flat.

As she stood on the curb and raised her arm for a taxi, she let out a long sigh. Now she just had to figure out what on earth she was going to say to her fiancé.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does his best to process everything he's just learned from Mary, and he gets in touch with Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. All quotatoins from Series 3 likewise belong to the writers.
> 
>  **Author’s Note** : I want to address the wobbly timeline in TSoT here. Given the way the episode is structured, it’s hard to tell when Sherlock and Mary started planning the wedding, and whether that was before or after John asked Sherlock to be his best man. We know that there were six or eight months between TEH and TSoT, and we know that Sherlock did everything from folding napkins to screening the guests – but he could have done that without, officially, being best man, just because he wanted to make John and Mary happy and give them their perfect day. So, for the purposes of things here, I’m assuming that we are about three months post-TEH, and that while Mary has started wedding planning, John hasn’t asked Sherlock to be his best man yet.
> 
> I also found [this lovely timeline of Series 3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1143228), put together by the amazing Kizzia, that illustrates the time lag between TEH and when John asks Sherlock to be his best man.
> 
> Sherlock’s quotation is from _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_. Somehow I have to believe that even Sherlock can appreciate a children’s classic.

**Triquetra – Chapter Two**

 

Sherlock thought for a long time after Mary left, slapping three nicotine patches on his arm without any hesitation and trying to make sense of the tumult in his mind.

He found that he was almost paralyzed by the influx of new data; it took over an hour before he could slow his whirling thoughts down enough to make any sense of them, and several more before he had managed to wrestle them into order.

What Mary had told him was . . . unprecedented. Unfathomable. Of all the variables he had considered, all of the possibilities he had agonized over both before his return and after it, the potential for something like this had never crossed his mind. He had been so convinced, when he returned to find John literally on the verge of being engaged, that the best possible course of action was to be as conciliatory toward both John and Mary as possible, to rejoice in their happiness and try to foster it, even if it left him feeling hollow in the moments he was alone. He had been allowed back into John’s life, thanks in no small part to Mary, and it seemed the least he could do to help plan their wedding, to be the friend he always should have been.

He and John had left so much undefined and unsaid, had always been at the edge of being more than they were but never quite getting there, and then Sherlock and Mycroft’s desperate bid to stop Moriarty had destroyed everything the pair of them had built. Sherlock’s tears on the roof of Bart’s had been genuine; he had known he was, in all probability, ripping their friendship apart permanently, but even he had not fathomed the depth of the pain and grief that John had endured. It had not occurred to him that he could be mourned so acutely, even though losing John had been like losing the breath in his lungs. Not until he came back, until he had seen with his own eyes that John’s loss and desperation had truly been as profound as his own, had he understood the extent of the damage he had done. Ensuring John’s happiness with Mary had seemed the only way to make it up to the doctor; Sherlock would never have dared to presume that John returned his feelings. Even before Bart’s, John had been absolute concerning his heterosexuality.

Yet today, Mary had said that John had cared, that he had loved. He had realized it too late, perhaps, but John had felt something for Sherlock – and Mary had come to Sherlock with not only her old life held out in her hands, but the potential for a new life as well, one that included both John and herself. Mary Morstan was a fascinating enigma, an extraordinary combination of qualities that scuttled Sherlock’s predictions and probabilities beyond the reach of any logical data set. She was warm and full of light but also cold and deadly when necessary, so much like his John.

_His John._

No – God, no, he couldn’t think about that yet. There was far too much that needed to be resolved before he could honestly hold on to that possibility. He refused to allow himself to go through his memories of John, to see how they had changed now, given his new data. He could not permit himself that until he was sure, until he knew there was a reason to hope. He could not bear to look at memories of John loving him and see only what he had lost, and not what he might have again.

Mary, then. Mary, who was apparently so much more than she seemed on the surface, who had an entire life that happened before this one, a life that had been buried and hidden for reasons Sherlock could only guess at. Mary had told him some, in those two hours – she had grown up in foster homes. Her parents were absent, her mother too poor to look after her and her father incarcerated. However, she had excelled in school and found she had an aptitude for languages. She went to university in the United States and was recruited by the CIA, where she also discovered she had extraordinary skill with guns. She had felt she was doing something worthwhile, serving a country that needed her, but sometime in her freelance years the work had turned sour for her. Her childhood had been buried by the CIA; she buried a second life when she became Mary Morstan.

That first night at the restaurant, Sherlock had taken in an enormous amount of knowledge from Mary’s face and figure, yet despite his conviction that she was a liar, his desire to hate her for taking John away, he had been disarmed by her kindness, by her mostly calm and even occasionally amused acceptance of his resurrection. Most women, upon having their engagement dinner interrupted, would have wept or raged; while Mary had been shocked and angry on John’s behalf, she had not said a word about the way Sherlock had invaded what was supposed to be an intensely personal moment.

Sherlock wanted to be angry with her – had been angry with her, for a few overwhelming moments, when he realized that she had lied to John about who and what she was, when he thought she had manipulated the both of them for her own gain. Once he had eliminated that possibility, however, he was surprised to find that it was mostly compassion he felt.

Oh, he was still angry at her for deceiving John. Hypocritical it might be, but Sherlock had better reason than most to know what lies, both deliberate and of omission, did to John Watson. However, he also understood that Mary had wanted to tell John her story on her own terms – and Magnussen had taken that from her, backed her into a corner with very few available escape routes.

Five years ago he would have scoffed at the stupidity of it, trying to erase and forget a life that had obviously been lived under a series of identities and under government auspices, but five years ago there had been no John. Five years ago he had known neither the extent of Moriarty’s network nor its utter depravity.

Five years ago he would not have understood the need to kill individuals who were simply beyond redemption. He did now.

Not Good? 

No. Possibly not.

Yet – John had killed for him after two days, killed a man who had done much less than most of Moriarty’s employees. And Mary, according to her own story, had simply targeted those she was asked to target by the U. S. government or by whoever was handing her a paycheck at the time.

 _Oh_. There was a thought.

“All right, Mary Morstan,” he murmured. “Let’s see who you were.”

He turned back toward the living room, located his laptop on the sofa, and swiftly strode over to it, hunching over the keyboard as he typed in his password, then plugging in Mary’s thumb drive.

The drive opened to reveal dozens of folders, neatly ordered and labeled. “Childhood.” “Education.” “Recruitment.” And then, a list of numbers.

The numbers didn’t make any sense at first, until Sherlock realized that they were dates. Dates of her assignments, with no spaces or punctuation between the numerals.

Sherlock deliberately clicked on “Childhood” at the top of the list.

“‘Begin at the beginning, and go on until you’ve come to the end,’” he murmured.

Over the next few hours, he read every scrap of information in every folder.

* * *

When he had finished reading all there was to know about Mary Morstan (née Angelina Gabrielle Renée Augustine), Sherlock finally looked up. It was late; judging by the darkness outside the window and the lack of traffic on Baker Street, it had to be nearing midnight. Not that the time really mattered. Sherlock hit a single button on his mobile and waited impatiently as the phone rang at the other end.

“Sherlock. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Spare me your sarcasm, Mycroft,” he said shortly. “We have a problem.”

“ _We_?” Mycroft said incredulously. The use of the plural pronoun might even have ruffled his composure enough for him to raise an eyebrow, Sherlock thought scornfully.

“Yes, we,” Sherlock answered. “Get me everything your minions have on Mary Morstan. I have to know what you know.”

“Mary Morstan, as in John Watson’s intended?” Mycroft replied slowly. “Whatever makes you think I have information on her?”

“Oh, don’t patronize me, Mycroft,” Sherlock retorted impatiently. “Of course you do. You monitor everyone who has any association with me, and even if you didn’t, your job while I was away was to keep John safe. Naturally you would have vetted Mary when he started seeing her.”

“Naturally,” Mycroft returned dryly. “And _why_ , if it’s not too much to ask, do you need this information?”

“Because I need to know whether Magnussen knows anything that you don’t, and how much of Mary’s past the British government is aware of,” Sherlock said bluntly.

The pause this time was loaded, not angry, but slightly dangerous in a way that only Mycroft was capable of.

“Magnussen?” he said carefully. “Charles Magnussen?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, our second cousin Victoria Magnussen,” he said in exasperation. “Of course, Charles Magnussen. Really, Mycroft, are you getting that slow?”

“You are not to have anything to do with him, Sherlock,” Mycroft said firmly. “I forbid it. You let him be, you do not get involved in any sort of case that will lead to him –”

“That would be rather difficult considering the case has already made its way to me,” Sherlock snapped. “I already know much more than you about Mary, Mycroft, but I need to know what you know. Magnussen has information on her, he’s blackmailing her with it, and we don’t know where he got it. You know how he works; he’s blackmailing her to get to me, and I _won’t let that happen_.”

Sherlock paused, catching his breath and reining in his anger, and Mycroft chose that moment to neatly upend his thoughts about the case.

“You’re wrong about one thing, brother dear,” Mycroft said tiredly. “He’s not blackmailing Mary to get to you; he’s blackmailing Mary to get to me.”

Sherlock’s mind went blank for approximately two seconds before all of the data in his head started to rearrange itself so quickly it was almost a blur.

“Say that again,” Sherlock requested, his voice measured. Control. He had to maintain control.

“Charles Magnussen wants _me_ , Sherlock, not you,” Mycroft answered bluntly, his voice dripping with condescension, the earlier fatigue in his tone wiped away as if it had never existed. “I must give him points for originality; I confess I didn’t think he’d go about getting my attention quite like this. I thought his blackmailing of Lady Smallwood was his latest gambit in my direction. This is decidedly more unpleasant.”

“He went after _Mary_ . . . to get to _you_?” Sherlock said in disbelief, starting to see the newly assembled picture in his head. “He believes I am your pressure point?”

“He never causes too much damage, Sherlock; he’s a businessman. He wants my attention, not my wrath. He wants to make a deal of some kind, probably to do with increasing the ever-expanding influence of his media empire. It’s inconvenient, but not insurmountable.”

“Doesn’t cause too much _damage_?” Sherlock repeated, his voice rising. “Have you missed the events of the past few months, brother dear? He _kidnapped_ John. He put John in a _bonfire_ , indirectly putting both Mary and myself in danger. Now he’s blackmailing Mary, forcing her to reveal her past before she was ready, possibly as a prelude to forcing her to do his bidding. Magnussen attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets; _why_ haven’t you gotten rid of him?”

“He’s occasionally useful to us; a necessary evil,” Mycroft said calmly.

“A _necessary evil_?” Sherlock hissed indignantly. “He’s gone after your co-workers, caused you any number of political headaches, and now he’s coming after your brother, whom you claim to worry about so very much, in order to get to you – and he is _necessary_?”

“He’s a media and political manipulator, Sherlock, not a dragon for you to slay.”

“He’s a blackmailer, Mycroft, a leech. A predator. A blight on your precious kingdom,” Sherlock said coldly. “You are going to give me the information I require, you are going to help me, because I refuse to let John’s happiness be destroyed; do you understand? Otherwise, I will find a way to do it myself, even if I have to hand _you_ to Charles Magnussen in handcuffs.”

“Heaven forbid,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “Thank goodness you chose to inform me of this now, Sherlock; otherwise who knows what wild scheme you would have come up with to save John and Mary. I will help you, if only because I would rather know what you are up to beforehand, rather than after the fact.”

“Thank you. Your compassion and concern are astounding,” Sherlock bit out. “I’ll expect the files in my e-mail as soon as –”

“Also, your loss would break my heart,” Mycroft interrupted quietly.

Sherlock’s power of speech abruptly abandoned him. Mycroft, of all people, never said such things. _They_ never said such things, only inferred them and alluded to them in veiled hints and verbal sparring. It was contrary to all of their interactive protocol as siblings, built up over years of rivalry and competition.

“What the _hell_ am I supposed to say to that?” he sputtered finally, after who knew how many seconds.

“Nothing at all, brother dear,” Mycroft answered, his usual disdain and superiority back in place but marred by something . . . poignant. “Nothing at all. I’ll have the files to you within two hours.”

* * *

_You left out one crucial piece of information. – SH_  

**Yes. Understandably, wouldn’t you say?**

_How much did he pay you? – SH_

**Enough to get out, which was all I wanted.**

_And you would have done it? – SH_

**At the time, yes. I didn’t know you, Sherlock. Either of you. And meeting John afterward really was entirely coincidence. Wonderful coincidence, as it turned out.**

_That doesn’t mean he’ll forgive you. – SH_

**I know. Do you? Forgive me, that is.**

Sherlock took a long time to ponder that before he answered. When he had found this particular file on Mary’s hard drive the night before, he had become perfectly still as cold terror had washed over him. All he had been able to think about was how close Mary had been to John all this time. Had she been other than she was, everything he had done to keep John safe would have been in vain.

However, she was _not_ anything other than herself: warm and caring, fierce and determined, and absolutely devoted to John – and against all probability, to Sherlock. She had given John an emotional home when he had none, done her best to smooth things out between Sherlock and John when the detective came back, and showered Sherlock in snarky affection. That last job had meant the end of her old life, a life she had wanted to be rid of, and Sherlock supposed that in her place, he would have done the same.

_I think so. Regardless, I will not let you become another of Magnussen’s victims. Everything about him is vile.  – SH_

**Well, that gives me something to go on, anyway. Thank you. And you’ll get no argument from me about Magnussen.**

**By the way, has anyone ever told you that it’s odd to initial your texts?**

Sherlock couldn’t help the smile that curled up his mouth at that last.

_John has mentioned it once or twice. – SH_

 

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft calls in reinforcements, and Mary talks through her troubles with a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : I do not own any part of _Sherlock_ ; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> **Author’s Note** : My deepest thanks to Nagaem_C and WickedforGood13. This chapter would not have turned out nearly so well without their perceptive editing and comments!

**Triquetra – Chapter Three**

Mycroft hung up the phone and buried his head in his hands.

It was a moment of weakness that he normally never allowed himself, but no one was with him at this time of night, and he needed to regain his equilibrium.

Damn it _all_.

Sherlock had to get himself mixed up with Charles Magnussen, of all people. Though Mycroft couldn’t admit it to his brother at the moment, Sherlock was quite right. The man was a leech, a predator that Mycroft had been trying to get rid of for months. Sherlock stepping into Magnussen’s affairs at this juncture could prove to be disastrous.

Mycroft had planned so carefully, worked so hard to give himself political and legislative cover and get rid of the media magnate at the same time, and it had all come to this.

He had been _blind_.

Magnussen blackmailing Lady Smallwood was expected. It was a political game Magnussen had played before, one Mycroft knew how to deal with.  It was harder this time, as Lady Smallwood was a good woman and something as close to a friend as he was likely to have, but Mycroft could control the damage of Magnussen’s ploy.

This new maneuver, however – going after Mary, after John, after Sherlock – had been completely unforeseen, and Mycroft wasn’t at all sure that he could bring them all out of this unscathed. Charles Magnussen saw manipulating people as a game that brought him profits, and if there was one thing on earth that Mycroft Holmes never toyed with or took lightly, it was the safety and well-being of his brother. Sherlock was his weak spot, and Magnussen knew it. How he had found out, Mycroft could only begin to guess, but Magnussen planned to make Mycroft pay for it.

Mycroft was, quite frankly, frightened, and being frightened was not a sensation Mycroft Holmes frequently experienced, nor enjoyed when he did. The last time he had been frightened, he had found his little brother being systematically beaten in a Serbian terrorist hideout.

Damn it _all_.

Mycroft rose from his desk and went to the liquor cabinet, fetching down a clear glass snifter and the decanter that held his Macallan 18 scotch. He poured a neat double on autopilot and took a sip, savoring the complex flavor even as his mind continued to work through the conversation just past.

At least Sherlock had to understand some of the gravity of the situation now. That unprecedented vocalization of _feelings_ – which had almost paralyzed Mycroft for their truthfulness, and for the utter lack of control he had in uttering them – would have revealed to Sherlock, more than anything else, just how serious this problem was. Regardless of what Sherlock might think, Mycroft cared a great deal for his brother. Despite Sherlock’s continuous antagonism and their long-established rivalry of one-upmanship, he suspected that the sentiment was reciprocated. However, it went against everything they were as siblings to acknowledge it.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Sherlock was already taking this problem completely seriously – deadly seriously if his tone was anything to go by – hence his phone call to Mycroft in the first place. Mycroft had known for years now, long before Jim Moriarty’s unhealthy obsession had led to a stand-off at St. Bart’s, that Sherlock would do anything to protect John Watson and keep him alive. Apparently, as Mary Morstan was now crucial to John’s happiness, that protection extended to her as well. Ergo, Sherlock was pursuing Magnussen in his usual fashion: carefully, with cunning and planning and absolute focus, but headlong and immediately, with no room for gray moral victories.

His little brother always had been an idealist, and the long game had never suited him. Sherlock was good at it, excellent, in fact; Mycroft’s best operatives could not have done what he did in his two years away. Contrary to what John Watson seemed to believe, however, the hunt for Moriarty’s associates had almost killed Sherlock in more ways than one. He had come back to England steadier, perhaps, and more open with those he was closest to, but also emotionally fragile and mentally and physically exhausted.

Mycroft resisted the urge to grind his teeth at the thought of John Watson and took another sip of whisky in deference to his dentist’s protests. John was a fairly intelligent man, and how he could not see that Sherlock worshipped the ground he walked on was beyond Mycroft. Oh, the doctor had every right to be angry at Sherlock for pretending to be dead, for causing him to grieve needlessly – even Mycroft had been surprised at the level of anguish John had seemed to feel over Sherlock’s death. But to fail to understand that Sherlock had not done so _willingly_ , that Moriarty had been threatening John’s life and the lives of others, seemed to Mycroft the height of obtuseness. While Sherlock had never, as far as Mycroft was aware, told his best friend and former flatmate about the snipers, surely John was capable of seeing that Sherlock would never have done something so drastic without reason? That Moriarty must have threatened Sherlock with something extreme in order for him to act as he had?

Mycroft shook his head in irritation and took the remainder of his scotch back to his desk. It hardly mattered, really. Sherlock would still do anything to protect John, regardless of the other man’s misconceptions, and therein lay the crux of this whole problem. Caring was not an advantage; yet, Sherlock cared for John Watson above all things and people, to a degree of selflessness that might be called devotional.

Mycroft finished his scotch while considering his options, and after he had emptied his glass, he looked at the time. It was almost one, far too late to call her now. There would be enough time for that later in the morning.

With a sigh, he turned to his computer and pulled up the files on Mary Morstan. He was curious to know what Mary had told Sherlock; his own people had been able to find little after her life as a CIA operative. She had turned up under her current name five years ago, but there were years in between during which they had no knowledge of her whereabouts or aliases.

Mycroft smiled grimly as he sent the files to Sherlock; he would not obtain that information from his younger brother, either. The rules of their game forbade it. Sherlock would no sooner give Mycroft a fuller picture of Mary than he would grant him a handicap in chess.

* * *

Several hours later, after a brief sleep, a shower, and some breakfast, Mycroft strode back into his office with considerably more confidence. Rest brought a great deal of perspective, and he was feeling much more certain that between his resources and his brother’s skills, they could still find a way to bring Magnussen to heel and ultimately – Mycroft hoped – use him for several ends the government deemed necessary. 

He settled himself in front of his desk, and before he could even call Anthea, she walked through the door and handed him a slip of paper.

“The number for her secure phone, sir,” Anthea said with a little smile, and Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement.

“Thank you. Impeccable timing as always,” he answered, and Anthea smiled again before disappearing.

He really should see about getting her another raise. Her ability to anticipate him was invaluable, and she had grown steadily more impressive at it.

Mycroft carefully and deliberately dialed the number in his hand, then waited as the phone rang.

“Good morning, sir,” a woman’s voice answered, her lilting Irish accent coming cheerfully through the phone.

“Good morning. I trust you know who this is?” Mycroft replied, a trifle brusquely.

“I do, sir. What are my orders?” the woman answered calmly, still cheerful.

Knowing that he was unobserved, Mycroft permitted himself the tiniest of smiles. He vetted every single one of his operatives personally, and he had liked this recruit from the first. She was completely cool and competent under intense amounts of pressure, she was rarely intimidated (even by him), and she still managed to keep a lightness about her that was refreshing when compared to the cynicism of most those on his team. She enjoyed her job, most of the time, for the excitement and the puzzle of it. In that, Mycroft supposed, she was much like Sherlock.

“The orders can wait a moment. Any news on our project?” Mycroft enquired.

“I sent a few more things to your office, sir, through the usual routes. Nothing terribly exciting, but every new bit of information helps. I’ve been more careful recently,” his operative said, her voice turning momentarily grim.

Mycroft winced. “You are recovering well?” he asked, his voice a little kinder. Magnussen had . . . _proclivities_ that were downright disturbing, and Mycroft had been upset when he learned of the man’s abuse to his agent. If she had truly protested, Magnussen would have fired her, and the work of over a year would have gone to waste. She had borne it well, and had been grateful that she hadn’t endured anything worse, but Mycroft disliked putting his agents in situations where they couldn’t defend themselves if necessary.

“It’s healed almost completely, sir. It will be good as new in another week. Thank you for asking,” she reassured him.

“And how goes your friendship with Ms. Morstan?” Mycroft questioned, getting to the real business at hand.

“Very well, sir. I’ve seen nothing suspicious, nothing to raise any alarm. She seems to be genuinely in love with Dr. Watson. I truly don’t think she would intentionally do anything to hurt him,” the agent said earnestly.

“Yes, well, that seems to have been taken out of her hands,” Mycroft said dryly. “She is actually why I’m calling. It seems that Mr. Magnussen has decided to blackmail Mary about her past, and she took it upon herself to go to my brother and tell him everything.”

There was silence on the line as the woman took that in.

“That was exactly what Magnussen wanted her to do, wasn’t it?” she sighed. “Is that why Dr. Watson was threatened, too? Why he ended up in that bonfire? Mary told me about that.”

“I suspect so,” Mycroft said flatly. “I also suspect that whatever Dr. Watson doesn’t know about his fiancée will be revealed to him very shortly, and since Mary has gotten my brother involved in this, there is no telling what will happen. I need you to help them. Keep them in the dark as long as you can about who you are, but help them, and keep me informed about what is happening and what you’ve learned. We do not need all these months of work unraveled with recklessness.”

“Yes, sir,” she acquiesced. She paused again, and then asked carefully, “Are you giving me permission to break cover if necessary?”

“If absolutely necessary, yes,” Mycroft said. “I need my brother to trust you, which is going to be extraordinarily difficult at best, but you have cultivated a strong friendship with Mary, and John seems to like you. Use that, if you can. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” his operative said with determination.

“Do you understand the magnitude of this assignment?” Mycroft asked. He infused his voice with just enough threat to ensure that her answer would be genuine. “Do you understand what you are being entrusted with? I cannot tolerate mistakes, not in this.”

“I absolutely understand, sir. I won’t let anything happen to them if I can help it,” she promised, and Mycroft was convinced of her sincerity.

“Good. See that you don’t,” Mycroft said, and he promptly hung up.

* * *

Janine let out a breath as the call disconnected. She was seldom awed by or afraid of Mr. Holmes; his tasks were difficult and he expected results, but he was never careless with those on his team and never asked for a job that was unnecessary. He wielded a tremendous amount of power, but (as far as Janine could tell from her limited vantage point), he honestly tried to do what was best for the country and rarely used his power for his own ends.

His brother Sherlock seemed to be the exception to Mr. Holmes’ personal rules – although, even there, Janine had to acknowledge that Sherlock served the country in his own way, so using government resources on his behalf was not entirely unjustified. There were a very few on Mr. Holmes’ team who were entrusted with the surveillance on and backup for Baker Street, and she had been lucky enough to occasionally be one of them.

This assignment, however, was something else entirely. Janine had not expected her work on Mr. Magnussen and her friendship with Mary Morstan to become connected in this way – and neither, it appeared, had Mr. Holmes. God help her if she screwed this up; everyone on the team knew exactly how much Mr. Holmes cared about his younger brother, and exactly how far Sherlock was willing to go to get the outcome he wanted.

For Mary to go to Sherlock with her difficulties was another surprise; Mary was unusually fond of Sherlock, Janine knew, but it went against every kind of training Mary would have had as an agent to disclose her past to a civilian. John was biased regarding Sherlock; Mary would not have assumed that the doctor’s perspective on Sherlock was accurate. What had made Mary decide she could trust the detective?

Janine glanced at the clock on her bedside table; she had to get in the shower or she was going to be late for work. She would text Mary on her way to the tube; maybe they could do lunch.

She needed more information.

* * *

“Mary!” Janine called. She stood up from her table to wave as Mary came in the door of the small café, which was roughly equidistant from both Mary’s surgery and Magnussen’s office. Luckily, Mr. Magnussen had told her to take a long lunch; he had an international conference call over his own lunch, and he hated anyone being in the office for such calls. She would be staying late to make up for the missed work time, but today, she didn’t mind. It allowed her to have lunch with Mary, and right now that was of primary importance.

(Luckily for Janine, Mr. Magnussen hadn’t discovered that she knew how to access his call log; the number would be sent back to Mr. Holmes for someone in his office to trace.)

Mary waved back and made her way over to the table Janine had saved for them, reaching out and folding the younger woman into a hug.

“Hello there! How are you?” Mary asked warmly, and Janine smiled as she returned the hug and they both sat.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Janine replied easily. “Eye’s almost healed up, and I’ve had a date or two this week.”

Mary’s face darkened at the comment about Janine’s eye. “I still can’t believe you let him get away with that. You should have filed charges,” she frowned.

“I can’t, Mary. He’s too powerful for that, and he would just fire me. I need the money, and most of the time it’s not bad work,” Janine replied. “I’d never get paid this much working in another office; you know that.” They had had this conversation repeatedly when Janine was first injured, and it upset Mary profoundly that Janine was neither willing to bring a suit against Magnussen nor walk away from her job. Now that she knew that Magnussen was blackmailing Mary, Janine could understand that Mary wanted her as far away from Magnussen as possible, but neither one of them could admit that, at least not now.

“All right; let’s not have this argument again,” Mary sighed, with a little shake of her head. She grinned at Janine. “How were the dates, then?”

“Ugh, first one was a disaster. Still lived with his mum,” Janine answered, and Mary shuddered in sympathy. “The second one wasn’t bad, though. Thomas. I might call him again. Computer technician, funny, not bad looking – and pretty decent in bed, too,” she winked.

Mary laughed, her eyes sparkling. “You are incorrigible, Janine.”

“Says the woman who’s landed an adoring fiancé,” Janine retorted gaily. “There’s only one John Watson in the world, you know, and the rest of us suffer for it.”

Mary’s face softened, but shadows entered her eyes, and Janine breathed a silent thanks that she had found her opening so easily.

“John is wonderful. I’m so lucky,” Mary murmured, absently twisting the engagement ring on her left hand.

“What’s wrong, Mar?” Janine asked gently. She already knew the answer, of course, but she needed to ease her friend’s distress. “You two didn’t have a fight, did you?”

“No,” Mary said worriedly. “It’s more that I’m afraid we’re going to have one.”

_Too right_ , Janine thought, but aloud she tried to make light of it. “You can’t _predict_ when you’re going to have a fight, Mary. Why are you worrying about it before it happens? And for goodness’ sake, every couple fights now and then! It’s not the end of the world.”

Mary shook her head, then looked over at Janine in entreaty. “I have to tell him something, Janine, and I’m terrified he’s going to hate me for it.”

_Careful, careful_ , Janine warned herself as she learned toward Mary. She could not give too much away, but maybe there was a way to tell Mary enough.

“Mary, I can’t imagine John hating you for anything,” Janine said emphatically. She lowered her voice. “And for what it’s worth, _I_ know, and I don’t think less of you.”

Mary gripped her hand in alarm, her eyes widening. “What do you mean, you know?” she whispered back.

“Mary, think about who I work for,” Janine said, so softly that no one except for Mary would be able to hear. “I’m his PA; I see things I’m not supposed to see. He goes out of his way to try and make sure I don’t, but he’s not infallible, and part of what he pays me for is willful blindness. I saw the notes he sent to you. They were on his desk, before he put them in with the rest of the mail.”

“Oh, God,” Mary breathed. She sat back, stricken. “And you’re still here. What do you want from me? Did he send you to keep me in line?”

“Of course not,” Janine said firmly, sitting back and letting her voice return to its normal level. Any longer whispering and they would look suspicious. She flipped her hand over and squeezed Mary’s fingers in reassurance. “He doesn’t know that I know, and he won’t. And if you ever get a chance to turn the tables on him, I will be the first person in line to back up your story. You’re my friend, and you’re a good woman. I don’t care who you were before. My boss shouldn’t be allowed to make you miserable with it.”

“‘Good’ is probably debatable, but I try,” Mary said wryly. “Thank you,” she added gratefully, sending Janine a warm smile. “I hope John takes it as well as you do. After I left the U. S., I did some freelancing before leaving the business altogether, and I did one . . . particularly horrible thing. It was mostly out of ignorance, but I don’t know that he’ll be able to forgive it.”

_God, she’s good_ _at this_ , Janine thought admiringly. _She would be an amazing asset working for Mr. Holmes_. Everything Mary had said just now could be overheard by a complete stranger and mean nothing, sounding simply like a woman who had changed continents and changed careers in the process, making some mistakes along the way. Without the underlying context, anyone who overheard would be completely ignorant of the kind of work they were really talking about.

She didn’t know what job Mary was talking about, as Mr. Holmes’ files were painfully thin after Mary left the CIA, but it must have been something terrible if it was worrying her so.

“When are you telling him?” Janine asked.

“Tonight at dinner,” Mary said, tapping her water glass nervously. “I told Sherlock the whole story yesterday, though,” she confessed, looking down guiltily.

This was something else Janine already knew, but she also knew what her reaction would have been, had Mary’s confession been a surprise.

“You told Sherlock before you told John? Are you out of your mind?” Janine exclaimed, leaning forward again. “I know Sherlock’s the best at what he does, but you told your husband’s best friend a whole slew of secrets before you told your husband, Mary! If anything about this really infuriates John, I would think it would be that!”

“I had to do it, Janine,” Mary said tightly. “If anyone can outsmart _him_ , Sherlock can, and he cares for John more than anyone in the world. He will move heaven and earth to keep me safe, for John’s sake if not for mine – and I don’t mind telling you that I’m scared to death,” Mary admitted shakily. “I tried so hard to leave all of that behind – I didn’t want to live that life anymore. I wanted to do something that kept people safe, but that didn’t involve –”

“I know,” Janine said swiftly, the words as much to prevent Mary from having to come up with a euphemism for her old job as they were an offer of sympathy. “I know you’re scared, but it will be fine, Mary. Sherlock will make sure of it, and so will John. John might have to come ‘round a bit, but once he does he will stand bodily between you and any threat. Even I know him well enough to know that.”

“I hope you’re right,” Mary said, her lips trembling as she struggled to hold back tears. “I love John so much, Janine; I didn’t want to have to tell him this way. I don’t want to lose him.”

“I don’t think you will,” Janine reassured her, fervently hoping that her character judgment of John Watson had been correct. The man didn’t trust easily, if at all, but once his loyalty was given to someone he was immovable. “Come here.”

Janine held out her arms, and Mary accepted the hug gratefully, clinging to Janine as she tried to regain her composure. When they both settled back into their chairs, Janine knew that Mary needed a change of subject – and a useful one had conveniently presented itself.

“Tell me about Sherlock,” Janine said with a smile, arching her brows curiously. “You’ve mentioned him before, and of course I know what he does, but what’s he like? The papers make him sound like he’s absolutely mad.”

Mary laughed lightly, and again Janine saw the deep affection her friend held for Sherlock Holmes, who was by all public accounts (and by her own observation) rude, difficult, and arrogant. Even Mr. Holmes, for all of his incessant worry about his brother, seemed to spend most of his time frustrated and exasperated with his sibling.

Mary took a sip of water before answering, her expression thoughtful. “I can’t tell you what he was like before he came back,” she started. “You’d have to ask John about that, though I’m not sure what he’d say. And I’ve the feeling that I don’t know half of what there is to know about Sherlock, yet. He’s the sort of person who you might never know everything about.”

Janine nodded, encouraging her to go on.

“But the Sherlock I know now is . . . intensely private. He doesn’t show the world very much of who he really is. And you would think he’s absolutely clueless when it comes to social interaction – and sometimes he is – but it’s mostly because he refuses to cater to people’s conceptions of what’s polite, particularly when politeness obscures the truth. He has no tolerance for stupidity or hypocrisy.”

Janine grinned. “Not a particularly comfortable person to be around, then.”

“Not for the average person, no,” Mary chuckled. “But he’s capable of being incredibly thoughtful and kind – and usually in a way that is entirely unexpected and touching.”

“So six feet of gorgeous with no social filter and a brain and heart to match,” Janine said facetiously. “I think I’d like him.”

Mary smiled back at her. “I think you might, too.” 

Janine got the odd sense that she had just won another level of Mary’s trust, and perhaps the most important one yet, though it wasn’t in any way she’d expected. Mary was surprisingly _protective_ of Sherlock. Janine filed that observation away for later consideration; she was sure there was more to that than Mary was telling her. And Janine had gotten her answer about why Mary was so willing to trust Sherlock: Sherlock would go to any lengths to protect John Watson.

Janine only knew the bare minimum about what Sherlock had done in his time away; compartmentalizing information was one of Mr. Holmes’ sacred laws, and no one was told too much. She knew that Sherlock was involved in taking down Moriarty’s network, and that Mary was considered a potential threat to Dr. Watson - hence her assignment to befriend the other woman. She had been given access to Mary’s government file, but absolutely no details on Sherlock’s work. When she had first started intercepting Mary on Mr. Holmes’ orders, making her acquaintance and building a friendship, Janine had been surprised by how much she enjoyed the other woman’s company. After months of being friends with her and finding nothing incriminating, no indications that Mary was returning to her old life or had any intention of doing Dr. Watson harm, she really did consider the other woman a good friend.

Now, learning from Mary this new information about Sherlock, and how important Dr. Watson was to the consulting detective, Janine was more curious than ever about how John balanced these two people in his life, and what he thought of the friendship between his fiancée and his best friend. She liked John, as far as she knew him - but he seemed like a fairly unassuming man, military background aside. What made him so invaluable to a genius like Sherlock Holmes, valuable enough that Sherlock was willing to protect John’s future wife?

Suddenly, in a flash of insight, Janine knew what to do next, how to help Mary and do her job for Mr. Holmes at the same time.

“Mary,” she said intently, “take me to see Sherlock.”

“What?” Mary said, nonplussed by the sudden request.

“Take me to see Sherlock,” Janine repeated. “Let me help you. Sherlock is only as good as the information he has, and if he has a person on the inside, his chances of succeeding go up exponentially.”

“Oh, no, Janine, I really don’t know if that is a good idea,” Mary protested.

“Why not?” Janine exclaimed. “I’m already in the office, Mary; I already know the ins and outs. I can get Sherlock what he needs, and he can keep you safe.”

Mary grasped Janine’s wrist, and suddenly Janine could see the former agent behind the nurse. Mary’s eyes were sharp and fierce as she gazed at Janine.

“Janine, this is dangerous. _He_ is dangerous. You’ve already lived through what he did to your eye, and that will look like child’s play if he catches you feeding information to Sherlock. He will tear your whole life down, do you understand that? He will destroy you. I don’t want to do that to you. Sherlock, at least, is used to dealing with dangerous people, and he will be expecting almost anything your boss can throw at him. You need to protect yourself, not put yourself further into the line of fire.”

_Oh, Mary, if you only knew_ , Janine thought in amusement. “At least let Sherlock hear me out,” she pleaded. “Let me tell him what I can about the building and the security, and then let him decide if he wants me to do anything else. I’ll feel so much better if I can do something to help you, Mary.”

Mary sighed. “I’ll think about it. Let me talk to Sherlock; he’ll be more patient with you if I explain first. You have to be sure about this, Janine. What you’re asking to do is incredibly risky.”

“I understand that, but you’re my friend and I want to help,” Janine reiterated determinedly. _I’m not a wilting flower, Mary. Let me help, for heaven’s sake._

“All right,” Mary agreed finally. “I’ll talk to Sherlock, and we’ll see what he says. But not until after tonight, Janine, please. I have to get through one battle at a time.”

“Of course you do. And thank you,” Janine said sincerely.

Inwardly, she breathed a sigh of relief. This was exactly what she needed. She would get in on Sherlock’s Magnussen case, help Mary as her friend, and do her job for Mr. Holmes, all in one fell swoop.

Now they just needed to catch an international blackmailer, a man who had millions of dollars and two-thirds of the country’s media at his disposal. _No problem_ , Janine thought dryly.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Mary answered with a grateful smile. “You’re the one helping me. I’m very lucky to have you as a friend.”

“Yes, you are, and don’t you forget it,” Janine teased her, trying to lighten the mood. “So before we have to go back to work, tell me about the wedding . . .”

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Triquetra:** shape formed of three _vesicae piscis_ , sometimes with an added circle in or around it. Also known as a "trinity knot," the design is used as a religious symbol by both Christians and polytheists. In romantic symbolism, it is frequently used to represent the promises of a relationship, such as to love, honor, and protect. It can be used solely as a symbol of protection. It is similar to, and probably related to, the _valknut_ , which is a shape formed of three interlocking triangles that was used primarily in Germanic paganism. The valknut was associated with Odin, the Old Norse God of war, battle, victory, death, wisdom, Shamanism, poetry, prophecy, magic, and the hunt. Given this lineage, it seemed utterly appropriate to use “Triquetra” as the title for a story about this formidable OT3, with all of their complex facets. (All of this information is cobbled together from various Internet sources, so my apologies for any inaccuracies.)
> 
> It should be clear from this first chapter that, for the purposes of this story, I’m 1) going AU in the middle of “The Sign of Three,” with the intent of thinking about what would have happened if Mary had gone to Sherlock earlier, 2) assuming that the lovely Mary we see in TEH and TSoT is the “real” Mary, or at least real enough that her actions in HLV were out of self-preservation more than anything. I have an idea of where I would like this to go, but any thoughts would be much appreciated.


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